


The Crownless Again Shall Be King

by Kanako_Hime



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angry Elrond, Angry Thorin Oakenshield, Angry Thranduil, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, F/F, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mages, Magic, Master/Servant, Master/Slave, Multi, Original Character(s), Protective Thorin, Return to Erebor, Saruman is God, Slavery, Slow Burn, Spells & Enchantments, Swearing, Thorin Broods, Thorin Feels, Thorin Is an Idiot, Trauma, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanako_Hime/pseuds/Kanako_Hime
Summary: Heavy AU. I've done some unforgivable tinkering.Thorin is a slave, in a world where any species that isn't human is enslaved or killed. Every day is hell, and isn't it just his luck that some crazy bitch decided to buy him?
Relationships: Dwalin/Nori (Tolkien), Dís/Dís's Husband, Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies), Thorin Oakenshield/Original Female Character(s), Thranduil/Thranduil's Wife
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

When Hannah woke, hours had passed. The fire that had blazed when she was preparing to sleep had now dwindled to embers, and she blinked in the dim light that was peeking through the curtains. She breathed in the scent of soap, firewood and salt, and mumbled, "Círdan?" as she sat up, pushing the blankets off of her.

A hum - warm, low and comforting - reached her ears to alert Hannah to his presence in the room. She swung her feet out of bed and into the soft slippers on the floor while she reached for a robe, the tight tension that came from her dreams slipping away as the sights and sounds of her chambers steadied her in the present.

A whisper of cloth brought more sunlight into the room, a handful of papers were set on the table with a crinkling sound, then footsteps padded across the floor and a silver cup appeared before her.

"Good morning, my lady," Círdan said with a smile as she took the cup and drank its contents. He was careful not to loom; Hannah disliked those who loomed over her, even more so after she had just awoken. She tended to react first, then think later. It had been agreed among the staff that they would make some sort of noise to alert their mistress to their presence. No-one wanted another candle stick flung at them.

As she drank, Hannah wondered what the silver-haired elf thought of her - changeable, confusing and often frustrating quirks. Why did she have no problem falling asleep with someone in the room, but being woken by the same person caused her to lash out so violently? She despaired of herself sometimes...

He took the cup from her when she had finished, leaning down slightly as he helped her to stand and kept one hand on her elbow as she took the steps towards the wash basin before leaving her to her morning ablutions. The elf stepped lightly to her door and opened it to receive a tray laden with food. Nudging it closed, he bore his burden to a table on the balcony and set it down, fixing the sleeves of his silvery robes and ensuring his appearance was impeccable.

"Círdan," his little mistress said again, more aware of her surroundings at this point as she joined him on the balcony. He smiled and pulled out a chair for her.

"Mistress," he said again, teasing her, and he bowed his head deeply.

" _Círdan_." She was irritated this time, as she lightly tugged on his ponytail. It was far too early for his antics. "You know I dislike that. What time is it?"

"Just after the ninth bell," was her response.

"And the letters?"

"Business matters." He didn't bother elaborating. She didn't care - she trusted him enough to handle her affairs without her blunders. "Shall I call for a dresser when you've finished?"

"No," she decided. "My plans for the day haven't changed- have they?" She looked at him inquiringly, and he nodded once. "So there's no need for anything too elaborate. I can dress myself, this once."

He laughed lightly at her jest, a hand rubbing the thin beard that sprouted from his chin as he acquiesced to her wish.

"What did you dream to distress you so?" Círdan's hands poured tea and put choice morsels on her plate, comforting and familiar motions that calmed her somewhat frayed nerves. The elf always had a soothing presence, and being near him was like stepping into a cool pool on a warm day.

"Memories," she sighed, because they'd agreed on such honesty from the beginning of their arrangement. It was easier in the long run to tell him; if she chose to keep silent, he would find out the truth eventually and more often than not, in a manner she would heartily dislike. Best just to get it over with. "Of long ago," she continued, wrapping her hands around her tea cup. "Bits and pieces, you know. Teacher. Family... _them_ ," she whispered the last, a trickle of ice slipping down her spine. She sensed rather than saw her friend tensing, and one of her hands released the delicate porcelain to rest lightly on his sleeve. "It is past, Círdan."

And it _was_ past. Hannah had gone from the depths of shadow and stepped into the light. It had been frightening, disorienting and confusing, but at the same time, she knew—deep in her bones—she had needed to do it. To be free.

"I will keep you safe, Hannah." The elf said it more to himself then to her, as though by saying it, it would become a reality. His eyes had turned icy, and his free hand rested atop hers; thumb sweeping steadily and gently across her knuckles. She sighed and rested her cheek against his sleeve for a moment.

"I would think that at your age, you have learned that nothing can keep anyone safe from life, my friend," she said quietly. Perhaps that wasn't the most reassuring thing to say, but it was the truth, and they both preferred the sting of truth to the slow poison of deceit. "But I know you will be at my side no matter what the future holds, as I will be by yours." She smiled then resumed sitting upright. "You will not so easily escape me, Shipwright."

He huffed a startled laugh, and released her hand. "Will you never let that slip into obscurity?"

"No," Hannah said, with determination. "No, my dear, loyal friend, I am afraid you shall return to your true calling again, one day."

Círdan set the plate in front of her, his shoulder shaking with suppressed laughter and delight. "Is that a promise, my lady?"

She smiled up at him brightly. "I do believe it is."

* * *

"Fuckin' filth," Lhúz snarled cracking a cat o'nine-tails at the cowering forms in the room before him. "'Oo wants some?"

Bleary, bloodshot eyes scanned the room, resting on a group of females. That could not happen. Thorin stepped forward, commanding Lhúz's attention even in chains. Yellowed teeth bared into a snarl. The Dwarf prince tensed before Lhúz leapt for him, dragging him across the room by his hair and then dropping him like a sack of potatoes. Thorin said nothing, staring at a crack in the ceiling before Lhúz snapped the whip across his stomach stomping on his neck in the same moment.

Thorin roared with pain.

He took every blow, each cut, burn and crack of the whip, but he refused to beg. He knew Lhúz would never give him relief if he begged; knew that in his eyes, the captured Dwarves before him were nothing. Insects. Easily squashed and easily replaced. Thorin had no-one to rely on, but the others relied on him. He had to protect them; ensure they each survived another day. Ensure their survival when he could not ensure others.

Over and over in his mind, Thorin heard the screams, the cries of pain - at times, he swore he could still feel the flames - as he was beaten like the lowest of beasts. But he would survive this.

His pride and determination kept him alive; he refused to die like a dog before he freed himself from his shackles. Every lash, every beating, every cruel word - he remembered, buried it deep within himself, determined to enact vengeance one day. He would have blood for blood.

Lhúz eventually finished with him, slamming the door after him to seek out a bottle of alcohol, and left him bleeding on the stone floor. Many hands pet him down, try to clean him up. He ignored them and slipped into oblivion.

* * *

_He dreams of Dís' laughter as Víli twirls her across the cottage floor, of his sister-sons as they play merrily with their toy weapons - though he notices Kíli seems to favour the bow, while Fíli seems happier with a sword._

_He dreams of his parents; Thráin whittling as his mother cooks and Frerin prattles on about the inkings he will get once he's old enough._

_He dreams of his grandparents; Thrór sitting in the council chambers surrounded by paperwork as his grandmother commands the Guild Masters with an iron fist._

_He dreams of silver eyes bright with love, curls that shine like molten gold, and he suddenly feels - knows deep to the stone of his bones that this creature came here for him. Is meant for him._

_"Do not worry. I am here now," the vision whispers, soft hands reaching down to touch Thorin's face, and for a moment Thorin can only smell something sweet and heady. Then he gasps as the touch burns into his mind, at the sudden knowledge that this is his match and perhaps, perhaps he is not completely alone, perhaps he was kept alive for a reason -_

* * *

He woke to the sound of chains rattling, Lhúz striding into the room and throwing a bucket of food scraps upon the floor.

The children get first pickings, no questions asked. Then the females. Then the males. Thorin took a piece of hardened bread; not the most desirable meal, but better than an empty stomach. When they had finished, Lhúz returned and ordered them to wash, which sent a spike of fear through the room. Washing meant it was Market Day. After they hesitantly washed (after Lhúz had cracked the whip a few times) they were broken into groups, their chains rechecked and a board hung around their necks with a piece of rope, stating their price. He burned with anger and humiliation, even as some of the women cajoled the children into wearing their own - such an insult was not to be born. Who would sell _children_ as though they were so much chattel?

"You lot! 'Mere!" Lhúz shouted at his group, pointing to the door that lead to the market.

" _Forgive me_ ," Thorin murmured over and over again, and each dwarf merely bowed their head as he passed, silent sentries to his shame.

"What is it? Are you in pain?" one of the little ones whispered, stepping closer to tug at Thorin's trousers. He patted the tiny hand, but said nothing as they marched through the market, surrounded by guards and watched by so many eyes, too many to count.

The pen where they were to stand for the day loomed.

With a grunt, Lhúz handed the bundle of Master's Whips over to the seller, then took his place behind the counter as the guards shoved them into the pen like livestock. They settled on the straw, chains clinking occasionally as someone shifted their weight. The market opened for the day, and people swarmed in, like flies to a carcass. Thorin stayed silent and knelt. When people begin to approach Lhúz and the seller - he ground his teeth and curled his fingers into fists - but he stayed silent still. The children were the first to go - they always were; something about _being young enough to be broken in_. Sometimes, there were sympathetic buyers who took their mothers or fathers with them, but that was not too often.

He felt tears burn in his eyes, knowing for a moment that it was because of _his weakness_ that he could not prevent it.

The pen slowly emptied.

By the time the noonday meal came, more than half the dwarves had been sold to one person or another. They would bow their heads minutely as they passed him, and then disappear into the crowd after their new masters. He was tossed another piece of bread and some water was poured into the trough - a welcome reprieve from the dryness in his throat.

 _It was not meant to be like this!_ a small part of him screamed as he drank from his cupped hands.

The time passed slowly, and the crowd thinned. Thorin's eyes pricked with tiredness. Surely it wouldn't hurt to rest them for a moment...?

* * *

_He dreams of warmth, strength, protection; a being greater than him as silver eyes haunt his thoughts._

_"Thorin."_

_A great being made of light towers above him, resting a hand that sang of strength and skill on his shoulder._

_"You are strong, Thorin. You are the son of my son, there is no task too difficult for you. Rest easy, for you will need your strength in the days to come," his Maker says to him._

_"The silver eyes?" he whispers reverently._ _Mahal only smiles._

 _"Your One. They will appear before you soon, take the hand that is offered, my son, and you will be reforged anew," Mahal says, and then a sweet voice sounds from him, light like the breeze and warm like the sun. He smells flowers_ _, and there is his One. The light from his Maker is too strong to make out features, but those eyes, bright and shining and soft, gaze at him with a gentle love that fills him with strength -_

* * *

"What can I do you for, Mistress?" the seller said in his oily voice, jarring Thorin from his sleep. "We only deal in the finest goods, I assure you."

As two voices conversed quietly - the presumed buyers - Thorin shook himself as discreetly as possibly. What vision had taken hold of his senses like that?

"Does anything pique the lady's interest?" the seller tried again, as Lhúz hacked up some phlegm.

"That one," a cool, polished male voice said, and Lhúz kicked Thorin to nudge him forward.

He felt alight with rage. The hem of a dark dress came to a stop at the edge of his vision. His eyes travelled up slowly. A woman was standing in front of his pen, a tall elf with silver hair a step behind her. Both were clad in the black clothing all the stuck-up nobles seemed to favour. He ignored the elf to focus on the woman. Black gown, black gloves, black shoes, black cloak - the only flesh visible on the dratted female was her neck and her face, save her eyes which were covered with the customary lace mask.

Thorin longed to snarl, snap, shriek at her - make her beg for her life for _daring_ to think she could purchase a _Son of Durin_ for some sick, twisted purpose. Lhúz was behind him though, and he still ached from the beating the previous night; he had no desire to inflict more pain when it could be avoided. So he stood quietly, inwardly seething as the seller rattled off his information as though he were an animal to breed. The woman said nothing. While Thorin loathed the idea of belonging to someone like a mere trinket - if he was sold to someone, it would be easy enough to slip away and rejoin his kin, perhaps discover what became of his family. This woman would not buy him though, he knew her type easily enough -

"Ten thousand gold pieces," a cool, musical voice said. As his owner's jaw dropped, the woman took a step forward and lifted the long chain in her gloved hand. Wide blue eyes fixed on the pale, pale face opposite him.

Apparently, he did _not_ know her type, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you all so much for the kudos! <3

Thorin had been plucked from the pen, dumbfounded, and led through to the back rooms of the market, where deals were struck and bargains made. The woman who bought him - _him, bought?!_ \- was seated in a soft chair, her elf standing behind her in a deceptively relaxed pose as he spoke with yet another greasy worker of the market. Thorin, on the other hand, watched it all from a corner of the room. The corner for slaves.

"Ten thousand is more than generous enough," the elf said firmly, his sea-green eyes glinting with steel. "The amount is enough to purchase the whole market and everyone in it. Though if you wish to bargain with me, sir, know that the price will drop. Considerably."

Thorin could see the man swallow nervously, even as he said with arrogance, "What would an elf know of such matters? It is a matter for your mistress, not you!"

"He knows my will, which is more than I can say for you," the woman said softly. "Take the offer or leave it."

The man took a visible moment to gather himself before he nodded. "Very well, m'lady. We will take the offered ten thousand-"

"Eight," the elf cut in smoothly. As the man spluttered, the elf's smile was practically feral. "For your rudeness to my lady." The mortal wisely left the point and continued on.

"Eight thousand gold coins. Age; around 150. As far as we can tell, from the Blue Mountains. He's stubborn, but it's easy enough to discipline him if you use enough force. If you'll sign, m'lady?"

As she pulled out her wax seal from some pocket or other, Thorin half-wondered who she was, to want to spend such an amount on him. It mattered not. If she was foolish enough to spend such a silly amount of money, she was foolish enough to let her guard down enough for him to slip away. An exclamation from the man drew his attention back to the present.

"Forgive me, I had no idea I was speaking to someone from such an esteemed house! We've never seen you in the market before, m'lady! If you wish, I can offer you _much_ better goods than what you see here-"

His gushing and fawning had apparently annoyed _her_ as much as it annoyed Thorin. She stood upright from the chair, her milky features (what he could see of them) tight with - tension? Annoyance? He dropped his gaze to the floor again.

"I don't want your simpering or your small talk - both leave much to be desired," she ground out, lifting her skirt with one gloved hand as she moved away from the man, apparently refusing to let even the hem of her gown touch him. She made a beeline for the door, seemingly eager to leave the place behind, when she paused in front of Thorin. Reaching out, she rested her free hand on the chain that bound his hands together before it twinned around his neck. The action startled him, his eyes flicking up to her face.

"You don't have to keep your head down. Stand tall, and look forward with pride," she said, softly enough so that he could hear, but the man wouldn't. "Do you understand?"

Clenching his jaw, he nodded tightly. Her lips turned upwards and she glanced over her shoulder at the elf, who nodded.

"My lady requires the use of a private room," he said smoothly. "We'll be borrowing this one."

"O-Of course," the man stammered, rising hurriedly. "By all means."

He practically fled the room, the door closing behind him with a firm click. She - _the woman, his mistress, the wench!_ \- stepped away from him and turned to fiddle with the black felt flower that was pinned into her pale hair; apparently it was attached to that ridiculous mask.

"What's your name?" she asked, quite out of the blue.

"Thorin," the dwarf answered shortly, watching as the lace loosened and slipped from her face. She handed it off to the elf, who tucked it into his sleeve.

"My name is Hannah," she said politely as she turned to face him, a small smile on her face. "Hannah of House Snow. And this is Círdan, my steward. It's nice to meet you, Master Thorin."

She extended a gloved hand - palm down, fingers outstretched - and Thorin had little choice but to take it. This woman now held his Master's Whip, and he had little doubt that if he refused to take her hand and bow, the elf would gladly trounce him. Without a word, he strode forward and brought his chained hands up, bowing his head over her hand even as he seethed.

"It appears you chose correctly, my lady," the elf said in a low tone. "How fortunate."

"Fortunate?" Thorin repeated slowly as he raised his head. Memories were straining their bonds, demanding to be looked at again - _the mountains burning, his grandparents dead, the village aflame, his parents, his sister, the children_ \- and he thrust the gloved hand away as his gaze scorched the silver-haired elf, while his mouth spat poison. "Nothing about this is fortunate for me! I've lost everything - how in Mahal's name is that _fortunate!_?!"

Tears were burning in his eyes, shame kindled anew in his heart. A small, slight, slender finger brushed the tears from his eyes; the motion cause his head to snap up and see his mistress smiling faintly at him, something soft in her grey eyes. The elf had (wisely) moved back a few steps, his eyes averted.

"Then we shall see to it that your fortunes will change, someday," she said quietly as she let her hand drop. A pulse rang through the air, as a staff that had not been there a few moments ago appeared in her hand; made of a warm, honey-coloured wood, and carved with flowering vines. "I don't want you to be helpless. A puppet is all well and good to look at, but-" she shot him a smile that was full of mischief, "I paid good coin for you; make yourself something worth looking at. Círdan?"

Quick steps and the elf had appeared beside the two of them, one hand resting on Thorin's shoulder, the other on her elbow. "Don't shake him off," she said warningly at his dirty look, "Stand close and try not to move. Oh, and you might want to close your eyes. You will feel nauseous otherwise."

Before Thorin had so much as opened his mouth, her staff had connected to the floor with a loud tap. A bright light sprang from beneath their feet in a circle.

" _Wave and dance, branches of mine. Blossoms of snow, pure and untainted. Wave and dance, and guide my way_ ," she chanted as long flowering branches pushed upwards from the floor and entwined them in a cage before the light became too unbearable, and Thorin had to close his eyes for fear of being blinded. When he felt the hand on his shoulder slip away, he chanced opening his eyes. Instead of a dimly light (and somewhat grimy) room, they were standing on the beach before a large house of white stone, with three towers rising grandly into the air as gulls swooped about in the air. The smell of salt washed over the astonished dwarf, as did the feel of sand underneath his unshod feet. He turned and saw the huge expanse of the ocean,

"...made it back in one leap," Hannah was saying quietly as she flicked her wrist and the staff vanished. "Small mercies."

"It would be prudent to go indoors," Círdan replied in a similar tone, his brows drawn together. She waved him off as she glanced over at Thorin.

"As you probably guessed, this is my home," she said in a louder tone. "As of today, it's also your home." The elf, seemingly irritated that she had brushed him off, took her firmly by the elbow and started to lead her towards a path that lead up to a veranda, leaving Thorin to stumble after them. She was arguing with the elf in low tones, eventually yanking her arm away as she hissed something at him before turning back to Thorin with a faux-calm expression. "We are in the Grey Havens. And before I forget..." she removed her gloves and ran a finger down the chain's links. Nothing happened for a moment before they shivered and then popped into small slivers of light that danced on the breeze before flying away. "You don't need that any more," she said at his dumbfounded look. "You are now a member of a mage's household. I welcome you, Master Thorin, and invite you to make yourself at home."

She smiled brightly at him, and Thorin found he could only stare and stare at her pale face as her words slowly sank in.

* * *

Círdan had put up with many things since life had been turned on its head.

He had been the lord of Mithlond, and was reduced to a servant of the Grey Havens; no longer able to craft ships to ferry the innocent out of Middle Earth to Dol Armoth. He bore scars - mental, emotional, physical - from his time in the slave markets of Men. Many of his friends and those he had called kin - he knew not what became of most of them. Those whose fates he knew, he wept bitterly for them and longed for revenge, a chance to right the world before darkness swallowed them all.

Then Hannah had appeared, a fierce little spitfire of a child, who watched the adults around her with wary eyes and removed herself from the other children. In her, Círdan had seen the same burning desire, and had seen an opportunity. They had forged an alliance, through years of trust and sacrifice, blood, sweat and tears. He had chosen her because she was worthy, determined; because in a world where everyone spat upon him because of his blood and heritage, she was the only one who extended a hand to him. He had chosen to press himself into her service, sworn to protect her for as long as they both drew breath.

Unfortunately, she often made that quite a trial.

As they had arrived just outside their home ( _once his, built for him in ages past when Mithlond was still being constructed_ ), he had noticed that Hannah's face, while pale during the talks with those odious men had turned ashen. Her hands were trembling, sweat beaded upon her brow - she had used too much magic. Transportation spells were taxing enough, but to be used _twice_ by someone who didn't have very high reserves to begin with...

"Thank the Valar we made it back in one leap," she muttered as the dwarf took in their surroundings with wide eyes. "Small mercies."

"It would be prudent to go indoors," Círdan urged, worry unfurling in his chest at the glassiness of her gaze. She was a hair's breath from passing out. She batted a hand at him dismissively, turning to speak to their companion instead of attending to her own needs. He hated when she did that. Taking her by the elbow, Círdan proceeded to pull her towards the house, his lips set in a firm line.

"Círdan! I'm fine - would you get a hold of yourself?" she snapped at him. The clink of metal indicated the dwarf followed them. One less thing to worry about.

"You most certainly are not," he replied in an icy tone. "You are going straight to bed-"

She pulled her arm out of his grip with a surprising strength, her eyes like flint as she glared at him. " _I respect you Círdan, but you are not my father - do not treat me like a child! I know my own limits,_ " she hissed at him in Sindarin. He blinked at her, shocked while she schooled her features into a calm mask. She broke the dwarf's chains, spiking his irritation further as she welcomed him to her household.

Dori - good, faithful Dori - had spotted them from inside the house and had practically flown down the path to slip his arm around Hannah's waist, even as she protested quietly.

"I'll take care of this," the grey-haired dwarf soothed, "There's a bath drawn already and new clothes waiting upstairs."

Círdan ground his teeth together and took a deep breath. He knew he wouldn't win this fight - Hannah was stubborn to a fault and would mulishly dig her heels in, if only to prove a point. Dori's mother-henning was a force of nature, however, and it was a brave soul indeed who pushed Dori away when he was on a mission.

* * *

A fellow dwarf who introduced himself as Dori of Ri swept up the path with a firm hold of the human woman, leaving Thorin and the elf to trail after them, stepping from the blazing sun to the cool shade of the house.

Thorin was reluctantly impressed as he lifted his eyes and glanced upward, examining the high peaked ceiling, the arched windows, the long, rich tapestries that hung down the walls. Beneath his feet, stone tiles were set in symmetrical patterns; a door to his left stood slightly ajar, showing a peek at tall dark shelves lined with thick books.

"This way," Círdan said, and Thorin turned back toward the elf who stood, patiently waiting on the stairway. The other two had vanished. He grunted and moved to catch up. The carved wood of the banister was smooth and cool beneath his hand. Ahead of him, Círdan's feet made soft taps against the marble steps as he climbed. Thorin strove to follow him quickly, feeling painfully out of place with his torn clothes and motley appearance.

Even the servants were dressed as finely as members of the nobility, he noticed as several passed them, though they refrained from the enormous amount of baubles and trinkets that members of the so-called 'higher' class preferred to hang upon their person.

Refraining from a sigh, Thorin looked away and followed Círdan, who turned down a wide hallway. Candles lined the walls in gleaming sconces until they stopped at last before three doors, all gleaming white with an almost pearly sheen.

"Those are my lady's rooms," Círdan offered carelessly, jerking his head at the centre door before taking hold of the left door's silver latch and lifting it as he continued. "And these are yours. You will find a bath prepared for you, and fresh clothes laid out. Supper will be in the dining room in two hour's time."

Círdan pushed the door open as he spoke, and Thorin followed, entering the room a step behind him. His eyes widened in shock, and his mouth fell open a little at the sight before him.

"When you are bathed and dressed," the elf continued, as wide eyes moved slowly from one end of the room to the other. "Ring the bell and someone will come to bring you to the dining room."

The main chamber where Thorin now found himself, held an enormous bed with rising posts at all four corners, their points hung over with a canopy of gossamer. To his right, a wardrobe of pale hued wood, the doors open slightly to reveal a number of tunics and trousers in varied hues, with pairs of boots lined neatly beneath them. A set of clothing was draped over the back of a chair beside an intricately carved desk, a pair of boots sitting beside them. Across the room was a door standing ajar, through which he could see a pool of water set into the floor, with wisps of steam rising from it. To the left, light shone in from a window that stretched from floor to ceiling, filtered through cream-coloured curtains.

"I am-" he swallowed the venom in his heart as he met the elf's eyes. "Very grateful. But surely these are not the standard set of rooms for..." _slaves, servants, toys for amusement_ "...people in my position."

For the first time since they met, the elf smiled. "Her ladyship will be pleased," he murmured, stroking the thin beard that was so rare to his race. "I assure you, there is no mistake. Lady Hannah is cut from a different cloth than other masters are. She is a master I _chose_ to serve, rather than was ordered to."

Someone the elf would choose to serve? Thorin was about to scoff when he remembered her expression during the talks with the market dealers - the almost childish refusal to let even the hem of her dress touch the filth that sold lives as though it were a cheap commodity. _Almost_ childish. But he agreed with it. He saw them as filth, too. But that proved nothing of her, save that she knew scum when presented with it.

"You will learn in your own time," Círdan assured him, as if reading his mind. "She will prove herself to you. She's very determined that way."

Thorin's mouth drew into a faint semblance of a smile. "I see your relationship with her is strong," he commented.

"I have watched over her since she was a child. She cared not for the differences between our races. When she went to train with her master, I followed. I have seen her highs and her lows. And when the old lord died-" Thorin felt his throat tightening inexplicably - he did not _want_ to sympathise with her over the shared loss of a parent, damn her! "she came back and changed _everything_." A large, warm hand rested on Thorin's shoulder, and he glanced up to see the elf gazing at him with ancient eyes. "I, too, was a slave once," he whispered, touching his own wrist gently. "I understand your pain."

As Thorin studied the pain, the sorrow, and the aching understanding in Círdan's eyes, he fancied that the elf did understand, if only a little.

"Thank you," he choked.

Círdan smiled, and lifted his hand. If either of them had to swipe wetness from their eyes, neither said a word. "I will leave you to your privacy." He nodded to the small bell on the desk. "Please, ring the bell when you are ready."

With a tentative smile, Círdan turned away and left the room, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.


	3. Chapter 3

Thorin sighed as he opened his eyes, and studied the ceiling of the bathing chamber as he floated in the warm waters of the pool. The flames of vengeance and desire to escape still sang within his veins, but he could not deny how pleasant this felt. Before he had been pressed into slavery, he had always taken baths in the cool waters of the pond in the village where they also did the washing. Warm water was a very rare treat. This was heavenly, he admitted.

He longed to close his eyes and just float in the water, clear his mind and gather his thoughts as he revelled in the rare luxury. But he remembered Círdan's words that supper would be soon enough; the other dwarves would be there. And perhaps she, too, would be there. His - he struggled with the word - mistress, with her strange words and gestures. Cut from a different cloth from other masters, Círdan claimed. Thorin wondered.

_A slim, dark-gloved hand rested on the chains that bound him. He could feel the silk brushing slightly against the skin of his hands as they both breathed. His eyes flicked up to a pale face, lips that were softened into a faint smile as hidden eyes gazed at him._

_"You don't have to keep your head down. Stand tall, and look forward with pride," she said in such a quiet voice, he half-wondered if she was actually talking. "Do you understand?"_

Drawing in a breath, Thorin ducked beneath the surface of the water, holding his breath for a few moments as he scrubbed at his mane of hair before he rose, taking in gulps of air. Arranged in a small basket on one side of the bath were several cakes of soap, sponges, and several corked glass bottles of varied hues. He picked up a blue one, uncorking the top. The gentle scent of sandalwood was inhaled greedily before he tipped the bottle, and let a pool of thick clear liquid spill into his palm. He nearly groaned in pleasure as he massaged the thick, sweet-smelling liquid into his hair, before he reached out a soapy hand, and picked up one of the soap bars. After a while of scrubbing, Thorin's skin gleamed. No traces of the sweat or dirt that had clung to him, or even of the grime beneath his fingernails, remained. Had he ever been so clean in recent years as he was now?

He ducked again beneath the water, rinsing the soaps from his hair and skin before he rose again, water streaming from him. He reached for the pile of soft towels as he climbed out of the pool, slinging one around his hips while another was scrubbed against his hair until it was no longer dripping water everywhere. He padded out into the main room, the tiles cool against his feet, as he crossed the chamber to the clothes that lay waiting for him. He tentatively brushed a hand against the fabric. Very well-woven, he noted with some surprise. And while he would never claim to have much knowledge of the art of weaving, the fabric was rich as well. He wondered.

 _"We shall see to it that your fortunes will change, someday," she said quietly, before a staff appeared in her hands. A shock of lightning rang through him. She was trained in magic? "I don't want you to be helpless. A puppet is all well and good to look at, but-" She smiled at him, and_ oh _didn't that send a tendril of warmth through him, but he would not deal with warmth, he had to be ice and rock in the face of such dishonour. "I paid good coin for you; make yourself something worth looking at."_

He shook his head and began dressing himself. Everything was cool against his skin, comfortable, soft, and clean.

Thorin sighed deeply, revelling in the feeling of being clean and properly clothed as he pulled his boots on. The fabric settled against him comfortably, fitting to the lines of his body as if it had been tailored for him. The boots were of soft, supple leather - hunting boots, he guessed.

Glancing across the room, he spied a large silver mirror tucked beside the wardrobe - curious, he crossed to examine his reflection in the mirror. A thrill slipped down his spine at the sight of himself. Even with his hair still damp and the lack of adornments, he looked like the Prince of Erebor he'd been, once upon a time.

Studying himself, his thoughts flitted to the strange Hannah once again. What would she think if she saw him now, he wondered idly. Would she be pleased? She had seemed pleased to meet him earlier, even when covered in filth and practically humming with rage. He wondered.

_"What's your name?" she asked._

_"Thorin." He was curt, a hair's breath away from snapping at someone. He was like a wild animal, backed into a corner and ready to bite the first person who approached._

_"My name is Hannah. Hannah of House Snow. And this is Círdan, my steward. It's nice to meet you, Master Thorin."_

_This strange woman, this - this_ slip _of a girl dared to approach him! To speak soothing words, as though to tame a frightened pony! To....to speak to him...as though he were her equal._

_As though he were a prince..._

_"This is my home. As of today, it's also your home." With a finger, she shattered the chains that bound him into fragments of light that flew away on the breeze, to return to the elements from which they had been forged. He was incredulous - a mere wave of a_ single finger, _she destroyed the chains that had been as much a part of Thorin as his own limbs for years_. Was her power so great? _he wondered as she assured him he didn't need chains, he was now part of a mage's household. A_ mage _!_

_Her eyes had fixed on his face, soft, but clouded with something dark, something that aged her even as she smiled at him as though she had not a care in the world._

_"I welcome you, Master Thorin, and invite you to make yourself at home."_

He shook his head. Truly, a very strange girl indeed.

* * *

The large hall, aside from herself and Círdan, was empty. Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, she studied the way the light played off the angles of his face. His own hands were clasped behind his back, and he remained silent, seemingly unwilling to meet her eyes. Hannah wondered if it was something she had done, or if it was a result of the discussion he'd had with the lord in the library when they finally arrived home. She lowered her eyes, recalling the almost vicious shout that summoned Círdan, and the icy dread that had surged through her as he left her side to answer the lord's call. She had been very relieved when he had returned to her over an hour later, untouched and unruffled in his manner. 

Lord Snow had not yet called for them to enter, and so she stood at Círdan's side, waiting for the summons, her fingers laced together against her skirt. 

"Círdan," she began tentatively, and the elf lifted his eyes, meeting hers, his gaze polite and enquiring. An urge to see him smile popped into her mind, and she asked, "Does this _pomp_ happen often?"

Her question was rewarded with a faint half smile.

"Not as often as you might fear, my lady," he assured her. "Such will not happen every day. I think he means to honour your return home by introducing you to some friends of his. They are rather - they have influence. Two of them, I know of, know your teacher. Perhaps the lord hopes that meeting you will awaken memories of friendship, and that they will help to further your studies."

Hannah huffed. "Ridiculous."

Círdan turned his head, and looked at her questioningly. "What is?"

"Why is he doing this for me?" she asked. "He barely knows me. He knows his _hounds_ better than he knows me. What, does he plan to use me as a bargaining chip to these 'friends' of his? There are no teachers of the magical arts in these parts."

A smile touched his face at this. "Perhaps he does not think as one who looks to gain something." She snorted and he nodded good-naturedly. "But I believe you are correct in not trusting him. While you have been studying, I received letters from the staff. The lord is certainly up to something, and they are all uneasy as a result."

She felt her heart grow still. "Anything concrete, or is there merely guesswork?" she asked through numb lips. "Why did you not tell me?"

"Nothing confirmed yet, though I have heard whispers," Círdan said quietly. "If I understand rightly, his habits are starting to ruin his health. He is making promises he cannot keep, he does not think himself as answerable to anyone. I did not tell you, for I feared your reaction," he confessed. "I was informed only days before the summons to return - I did not wish to upset you."

She sighed heavily. "You honestly take the whole 'protection' thing to a whole new level, Círdan," she said after a few moments of thought. "I'm annoyed you didn't say anything sooner, but I cannot fault you too much for it. I _would_ have reacted badly."

In that moment, the doors before them creaked open, and Hannah jumped.

"Here," he urged, bringing his hand forward, and offering it to her. "Do not worry, my lady, I will stay at your side until the end."

Her eyes flashed in understanding as she took in his words, but fixed her gaze forward again, as she heard the lord's voice clearly as it rang out.

"My friends, I present to you, my daughter Hannah, newly returned from her studies as a mage."

" _What if I trip?_ " she hissed, her hands pressed together tightly.

"You won't," Círdan reassured her as his fingers, warm, certain, and assuring, found and gripped hers. " _Courage, lady_."

Through his hand, she felt a small lap of energy, as though she was walking in the surf. Her feet felt light and her fears, though they did not vanish, solidified into determination as confidence swelled within her. She would continue forward, just as she planned - as they planned. And Círdan would be right beside her, as he always was.

* * *

Hannah woke with a start. The curtains had been drawn, but it was considerably dimmer then it had been when she had been forced into bed by Dori - Valar bless and curse the mother-hen in the same breath. She honestly shouldn't have put it past Círdan to have the fussy dwarf waiting for them to arrive home - even at her worst, he would just cluck at her, toss that intricately braided head of his, and do whatever he damn well pleased anyway.

"Are you awake, lass?" the dreaded voice came. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand as she tossed the covers off with the other.

"Yes, Dori, I'm awake," she mumbled. "How long was I asleep?"

"Just under two hours - I barely got you up the path before you passed out!" he clucked, appearing from the darkness and starting to fuss over her. "You overstretched yourself again."

"I know, don't remind me," she said grumpily, waving him off as she stood and stretched. "How has our guest settled in?"

"Mister Círdan said he seemed to be a little calmer once he was shown a fresh set of clothes and a bath. I've tossed those old rags of his onto the kitchen fire," the eldest Ri brother huffed as he propelled her to her dressing table. "How anyone could even think to do such a thing...it's terrible."

"I know, Dori. I know," she said quietly, taking a seat as she wiped her face with a washcloth. She watched him through the mirror as he puttered about the room, tidying up, setting out fresh clothes for her - nothing fancy, she noted with relief, just a blouse and a long skirt.

"Change into that," he ordered. "Then we'll get you downstairs for a bite to eat." With a snort of amusement, Hannah did as she was bade, returning to her seat when she was done and picking up a brush to work her way through the snarls of her hair. Once she had set the brush down, Dori's hands began to weave the strands into some semblance of order as she looked through some papers Círdan had left out for her. Eventually, Hannah had two small braids behind her ears that came together to form a thicker, more intricate braid of hair that rested on the unbound hair against her back.

"It's wonderful, Dori," Hannah smiled, and Dori mirrored her smile. She rose to her feet and turned to face the dwarf. "Shall we?"

Nodding, Dori led the way out of her chambers and down the long, candle-lit hallway to the stairway. The pair descended the steps, Hannah's heart in her throat as she anticipated the latest interaction with the surly dwarf she had brought home. He had never met her before, did not know her people or her personality, but only that which came attached to her name. Would she be met with the same she faced outside the walls of her home?

She and Dori reached the main floor, and they turned, delving further into the house before they entered the kitchen. As the door opened, the lively chatter dimmed, and despite herself, a knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. Círdan's face, she saw immediately. Other faces turned towards her, faces she knew as friends - kind, steadfast friends who would not hurt her, she assured herself.

Círdan's eyes found hers, and an expression of pleased welcome came over his kindly face.

"Lady Hannah," he greeted. "You look refreshed."

The rest of the kitchen's occupants called out their greetings, and Hannah's eyes found Thorin's in a moment. Her heart thumped fiercely within her at the visible intake of his breath, his broad chest swelling as his eyes, stormy-blue, took her in silently. Then his head dipped minimally before he returned to his food. Hope swelled in her breast.

 _Perhaps he did not hate her_.

"It's all due to Dori's skill," she said calmly, holding out her arms as though she were being inspected. "I just fell out of bed."

"I can't conjure a diamond where there's only coal, lass," Dori said generously from where he was filling his mug with ale.

"Are you calling the rest of us coal?" A red-headed dwarf yelled from the table. Dori huffed and flounced to his seat amid the chuckles.

Hannah took a seat near the middle of the table, far enough away that the newest member of the household wouldn't be upset by her presence, but enough that she could still keep an eye on him. A heaped plate and a cool glass of lemonade were put in front of her and she dug in with gusto. Around her, the cheerful buzz of conversation took over the room again. 

As the meal concluded, a fiddle was brought out along with the pipes, and mugs were topped up as the air was thick with songs, smoke and laughter. One of the younger dwarves drew her into a conversation with Círdan and some of the others, arguing the merits of stone and rock over bark and leaves. Círdan had slung an arm over the back of her chair casually as the debate continued, the gesture comforting and steadying.

"Well," she interjected, "I'm a not exactly a creature of habit. You could stick me down a mine shaft or in the middle of a forest, and as long as I had something to keep me busy, I'd be quite happy. Círdan, on the other hand-"

Círdan drew in a faux-pained breath. "I find more comfort in the forests or the sea. However, I see the merits to living within rock and stone." 

And again the conversation swelled, several dwarves arguing loudly to get their points across. In the middle of it all, Hannah sipped her lemonade and felt quite content. Quite content indeed. Until the conversation turned to women.

"My Dala's the most beautiful creature in all of Arda," Glóin boomed, his face as red as his beard. He'd had too much ale again, Hannah sighed mentally as he began to rave about his wife's gorgeous eyes, the rosiness of her cheeks, the strength in her fingers and the delightful fineness of her beard. "No-one will ever come close to her beauty!" he finished, belching amid raucous laughter.

Despite herself, a tendril of worry twisted itself around Hannah's heart at that declaration. She had very little time for romance herself, though her status as a mage would demand that she marry one day to pass on her skills to a new generation. While she believed that it was how a person was on the inside was what mattered most, she couldn't deny that a person was more attractive if they had a pleasant appearance. If so, what did that make her? Would anyone even bother to glance at her, when the time came? The worry must have shown upon her face, as Círdan's finger tapped her shoulder hard enough to make her jump.

"Don't fret," he said in a quiet voice. "Anyone who wishes to win your hand will look and see the inward beauty of your heart, which will be as clear to them as your outward beauty." He paused, his eyes soft. It reminded her of kinder days.

"Now Glóin, our lady is quite the jewel herself," the elf continued in a louder voice. "She shines as brightly as the morning star." He glanced at their fellow debaters. "Does she not?"

"Aye," the others said cheerfully enough, and Hannah felt her worry slip away for the time being. Marriage and beauty could be worried about when she had the time to worry about such trivial matters.

"Lass?" Dori asked, and at his query, Hannah lifted her gaze inquiringly. "Lass, there's a visitor for you," he murmured, his voice even and deep. "And he'll not be deterred." His words were directed at Hannah, but his gaze found the elf's, his eyes dark with urgency.

"Thank you, Dori," Hannah smiled, turning to face her steward. "If you will go see to our guest's needs Círdan, I'll be up momentarily." But from his seat, Thorin could spy that her eyes had darkened at Dori's words, and her smile was false.

He wondered.


End file.
